


A Soft Answer

by SummerdaySands (IvyMcAllister)



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Angst, Daddy Issues, Dysfunctional Family, Emotional Baggage, Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hugging, Hurt/Comfort, I'm going to play with this toy until it breaks., Smarm, Straight Guys Hugging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-03 03:03:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/376397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IvyMcAllister/pseuds/SummerdaySands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yet another Blair-has-a-migraine fic, but set earlyish in the series, right after Blair moves into the loft.  (Yeah Jim's still a bit of a jerk at this point, but, as always, everything works out in the end.  And there's *hugging!*  Hugging is good.)</p><p>Fair to point out:  It was *not* my intention to write slash here, but I've been told that the end could be construed as a bit guy-lovey if you have your slash goggles on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Soft Answer

~ "A soft answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger." Proverbs 15:1~

 

Jim was _finally_ on his way home.  

He'd been on stakeout off and on for over a week now, catching what sleep he could when he was able--which wasn't often in the noisy apartment building they'd been occupying for the duration. Blair had been helping him with the Sentinel stuff for a few weeks at that point, but as the lack of sleep caught up with him, his concentration suffered and so did his control of his senses. 

Once you figured the sheer vileness of the crimes into the picture, it was almost understandable why Jim was having a hard time just being civil. "Crush" flicks, white slavery, kiddie porn--all the things that pushed Jim's buttons and made him want to rip some S.O.B.'s tonsils out through his nose. Hell, even hardened vice cops were having problems keeping it professional on this one. 

And when the bust had finally gone down earlier that morning, Sandburg was nowhere to be found.  

Wired-and-tired wasn't a good combination for an inexperienced Sentinel. Jim had been dialed up, trying to pick up signs of activity in the suspect's building when an air horn blast from a passing tractor-trailer sent him into unadulterated auditory *hell.* 

Simon hadn't known what to do with him, and he'd been left alone, curled up on the floor in the grimy apartment while the SWAT team and the rest of Major Crime went in. Luckily, he'd gotten himself under control after working on his breathing and dials for several minutes, like Sandburg had taught him, but by then the takedown was over and people were asking him where the hell he'd been.  

Simon had covered for him, saying he'd sent Jim to check out something suspicious in another room, but later, in Simon's office, he'd given Jim the third degree before delivering the _coup de grace_.  

* * * 

"And just where the hell was Sandburg when you were making like a shrimp in there, Jim?" Simon, well-chewed cigar in hand, was pacing in front of his desk.

"I told you, Captain, I tried to get ahold of him on his cell and at the U, but he never got back to me and his phone was turned off . . ." 

"Whatever, whatever." Simon waved off Jim's attempt at an explanation. "Just make sure you get him in here the next time something like this goes down, Ellison, so we don't have any more. . . incidents, alright?" 

Simon softened a bit when he saw the impassive soldier-look steal across Jim's face.  

"Look, Jim. It's for your own good as much as the Department's. As much as it kills me to say it, the kid really seems to help you out. So just try to have him around when you think you might find yourself in a... a... situation. Okay?" 

"Understood, sir." Jim's expression remained unreadable. Chin up, eyes forward, he was practically standing at parade rest. 

"Come on, Jim. Loosen up, alright? Go home. Find out what was up with Sandburg today, or something. It's not like him to miss out on something this big." When Jim didn't move right away, Simon's lips tightened briefly before he said, "Dismissed, soldier." The wry half-smile that followed was lost on Jim as he was already out the door and halfway through the bullpen.

    * * * 

Jim stewed for the entire drive home.  

Simon thought he was useless without Sandburg. What, was the kid going to baby-sit him for the rest of his life? What the hell kind of cop was he if he couldn't take care of himself? And even if he did manage to learn to control his senses on his own, would Simon ever really trust him to function sans Sandburg? He could see a pattern being set here, and he didn't like it.

When Jim finally stepped through the door of the loft, he thought something was wrong with his eyesight. It was *dark*. Far too dark for just after three in the afternoon.    
His Sentinel sight kicked in almost immediately, though, and Jim saw what was causing the lack of light. Someone--Sandburg, presumably--had tacked two tightly woven cotton-wool throws over the sliding glass doors. Plastic clothes hangers with clips on them were holding the blankets together where they met in the middle, and an odd assortment of items - some jar candles, a glass paperweight, a cast silver nutcracker shaped like a squirrel, and a sneaker - were lined up on the ground to seal the bottom edge tight to the floor.

Hardly a chink of light was worming its way into the loft. Between that and the lack of any other lights to compensate, it was pretty darn dark in there.  

But, Jim reasoned, shouldn't there be some light from the skylight in his room? Turning his attention upwards, Jim peered through the darkness to the location of the skylight. He was quite surprised and not a little miffed to see that Sandburg--and he was now *sure* it was Sandburg's doing--had tacked a cloth over the skylight, as well. It looked like canvas of some kind, the raw, frayed edges glowing, eerily backlit by the tiny bit of light that crept in around them.  

Jim frowned as his eyes finally came to rest on his new roommate.  

Blair was curled up on the couch facing away from the glass doors, face obscured and pressed tightly into the place where the arm of the couch met the back cushions. His shoes were still on, Jim noted with a distinct flare of pique, and the throw covering Blair's legs and torso was barely hanging on, covering more of the floor than it did Sandburg.  

Jim's eyes flicked back to the doors where a tiny shaft of light was leaking in around the very edge of the left-hand blanket. Jim tracked it as it slithered sneakily over the floor, oozing over and around cracks and carpets like a boneless cartoon cat stalking its prey. It clung to the side of the sofa, slinking across the cushions and up to crouch on Blair's shoulder, quivering, waiting to spring the second its prey opened its eyes. 

Blair's breathing was a bit quick. . . a bit shallow, and his heart was beating a tad too quickly, as well. Nervously, Jim decided with some satisfaction. Hunted.  

 _And he's awake_ , Jim thought irritably. Awake and just waiting to see how much he can get away with.  

Blue eyes narrowed and the vein on the side of Jim's forehead began to throb. He'd had a shit day, and it was all Sandburg's fault. It was bad enough he had to need the kid, but for all Blair's talk about being partners--being friends--Blair had left him hanging... _*Hurting,*_ interjected a tiny voice... during the biggest bust of the year.  

Now, standing in the darkened loft and watching Sandburg pretend to sleep, Jim felt a cold anger wash over him. As it did, the words poured out, uncensored.  

"I know you're not sleeping, Sandburg. Where the hell have you been? I called you at the U and on your cell at least five times. Oh, you can get your feet off the sofa anytime, by the way. And what the hell," he pointed accusingly at the makeshift curtains, "is this?" 

"Mmmmmhhh." 

"Get up and explain yourself, Sandburg. I'm waiting." 

An echo of his angry words rang in his ears, slightly different, making Jim wince with shame.   _*Get down here and explain yourself, mister. I'm waiting.*_  

How many times had Jim heard the same phrase from his father? They were words that intimidated, accused. They were the words of someone playing judge, jury, and executioner--not those of a reasonable man.  

And where did he get off treating Blair like a kid? *His* kid? But he couldn't stop. The script was written. Jim felt helpless in the face of his own history, compelled to play his role to its inevitable conclusion. 

Shaking his head as if to clear it, anger still written plain on his face, Jim drew breath to start in on Sandburg again when the small, soft words reached him.  

"Sorry, Jim."  Blair sounded hideous, raspy and weak, like he was just waking up from the world's worst hangover.  "I'll put it back, man -- put it all back, I promise -- just had to get rid of the light." 

And somehow, Jim's mouth was on auto-pilot again. 

"What is this, a *hangover,* Sandburg? In the middle of the afternoon? If I'd known I was letting an alcoholic in here, I'd have made some ground rules. Like, 'No drinking while you're living in my house' for a start."  

"You don't believe that, Jim." More soft words, delivered evenly, without hurt or judgment. 

"What do you know about it? What do you think you know that *I* don't, huh? I'm the goddamned Sentinel here, and you're telling me what I know? This is bullshit, Sandburg, bullshit, and you fu--" 

"What happened today?" If anyone could interrupt yelling with a whisper, it was Sandburg. 

Inexplicably flustered by Blair's continuing calm, Jim tried to regain some of the head of steam he'd been working off.  "Don't try to change the subject, here. We're talking about you, and the loft, and the shit you've stuck on my windows, and--" 

"I'm sorry I wasn't there, Jim." Blair rolled over and was looking at Jim with eyes squinted painfully against even the minute bit of light that was seeping into the loft. "I get migraines every once in awhile, and it's all I can do just to ride them out. I didn't have much choice, but I'm sorry it inconvenienced you." 

"Inconvenienced? *Inconvenienced* me? I was lying on the goddamned floor of that stinking apartment with my ears turned inside out and Simon staring at me like I was nuts! I missed the entire goddamned bust! And when I *finally* got my shit under control, I had to listen to Simon cover for me, tell everybody he'd sent me into another area to check something out. He had to *lie* for me, Sandburg, because *you* weren't there to make *me* function. I was supposed to be there for everyone today, part of the team, using these shit senses for something worthwhile and... and... You. Weren't. There. I let them down today. I let them all down, and it's your fault. You left me alone and I needed you." 

Jim was winding down, finally--quieting and losing some of the vicious, biting tone he'd taken on. 

"I just... wish you hadn't left me alone." 

Carefully, Blair sat up, wincing as the blood pounded in his temples. Letting Jim work it all out had been a good idea, but it had been murder on his headache. Should he meet the bull head-on?  

Why not.  

"That's no small amount of baggage you're carrying around there, Jim." 

The older man visibly tensed, and the muscles in his jaw started twitching.

Okay, so maybe that *wasn't* the best approach. 

"What do you know about it, Sandburg? You were *swimming* in people. Probably camped out in communes all over the country, strapped to Naomi's tit for the first three years of your life and the next ten besides. And just because I took care of myself I have *baggage?* Save your apologies and the armchair psychologist routine for somebody who'll swallow it. I don't even want to hear you say you're sorry, Sandburg. You're not. You're just *sorry* I called you on it." 

Jim's glare could have melted glass. 

"You're here to help me do my goddamned job--either do it or get out." 

He was halfway up the stairs before he even finished speaking. Once safely in his room, Jim sat slowly on the bed, blushing hotly. He couldn't remember being this embarrassed in his life.  

He'd just ripped into Blair for no other reason than to make himself feel better. And he'd failed even to achieve that guilty comfort.  

He was a heel.  No, worse than that. He was his father. 

But why Blair? He'd never been like this with anyone else. He'd never felt compelled to dance this dance with Danny or Jack or even Carolyn, for that matter. Never treated anyone else like this. 

 _Because, dumbass, you've never let yourself need anyone since Mom left. And look where it got you._  

 _Yeah, look what it got you,_ another voice chimed in. _The closest thing to friendship you've had since Jack. And what do you do? You piss on it._  

 _I didn't piss on it!_ Jim was defensive. 

 _Yeah, uh-huh. Whatever._  

Looking up at the hastily covered skylight, Jim focused on the tacks that held it up, one by one, trying to avoid thinking.  

Eighteen . . . nineteen . . . twenty . . . twenty-one . . . 

Wait.  

What was that, on that last tack? Dark, reddish brown, it had soaked unevenly into the canvas. Following the line of tacks, Jim could see a bit of it near each one, the size of each stain dwindling until he was back at the first tack again. 

Blood. Blair had cut himself--hurt himself doing his. And it hadn't stopped him. He'd been that desperate to block the light. 

"I'm sorry, Sandburg." The whisper was almost too soft for Jim to hear it himself, but it was the best he could do for now. Apologies weren't exactly his strong suit.  

Memories assailed him again. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

_I'm sorry, Dad.*_

_*Don't give me that, Jimmy. You're not sorry you did it--you're sorry you got caught. I don't want to hear those words from you again, understand? Because you're not going to do anything to be sorry *for,* is that clear?*_

_*Yes, sir.*_

_*Good. Now go to your room.*_  

As an afterthought, _*You can eat something in the morning.*_  

It was three-thirty in the afternoon.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Oh, lovely. 

That explained a lot. Jim wasn't sure how to react to that, and so he lay there, unmoving, thinking about anything else. 

He must have drifted off, because when he looked at the clock it said 6:30. It was getting darker outside, but there was still light creeping in around the canvas.   
For one blissful, half-conscious second, Jim was caught in that perfect, rosy waking moment when we have no memory of recent traumas. He didn't remember what had happened that afternoon and wondered, idly, if Blair was home yet.  

Dark.  

Why was it dark?  

Why was there something on the skylight?  

Had Blair... ? 

Oh, shit. 

It all came back to him, anger and vitriol and harsh, untrue words. Without giving himself time to think about it more deeply, Jim pushed himself to his feet and headed downstairs. 

The makeshift curtains had been removed from the glass doors, and were, instead, insulating the door to Sandburg's tiny room. Some light still found its way out around the edges, and Jim wondered where it was coming from. Surely Sandburg had covered the door . . . ? 

"Sandburg?" Jim tried quietly. 

"Blair?" A bit louder this time. 

When he got no response, Jim pushed the blankets aside carefully, not sure how they were held up.  

Sandburg was curled in on himself, facing the wall, a pillow and his arm covering his head. The door to the fire escape was not covered. Jim couldn't figure out why until he thought about it. It was a steel door. A safety door with a steel frame, meant to minimize the chances of a break in.  

There was nowhere to tack anything on the metal frame, and Jim had made it quite clear than nothing was going to be taped to those walls any time in the foreseeable future. So the golden evening light streamed in, unimpeded. 

"I -- I could say I'm sorry, Sandburg, but it wouldn't mean anything." 

"It would to me." 

Jim sighed. "Sorry's only worth the thought behind it, Blair, and I just -- don't do 'sorry' very well." 

"Are you happy right now?" 

"No." 

"Do you feel good about everything you said?" 

"No. . . ." 

"Do you wish things had turned out differently?" 

"Yes." 

"Then you're sorry." 

"It's not that easy." 

"Yes, it is, Jim. That's what sorry is. When you regret your actions, you're sorry. And from what you just said, you sound sorry enough to me." 

Silence reigned for a few seconds while Jim digested this.  

The light that had been coming through the fire escape door was dwindling quickly now that it was closer to seven o'clock. It was a warm, soft glow, now, and Blair had opened his eyes, rubbing tiredly at his face with one hand. 

"How's the head?" 

Blair groaned as he shifted to his side, folding the pillow and wedging it under his head. 

"Still attached, man, but I wish it wasn't." 

"Did you take anything?" 

"I had a prescription for Imitrex once, but I never renewed it." 

"Didn't help?" 

"Couldn't afford it." 

"Want to take something now?" 

"I'll puke." 

"Not if you eat something first." 

"I'll puke." 

"Sandburg . . . " 

"It's okay, Jim. I'll get through it. Always do." 

And now Blair, who was hurting, was reassuring Jim, who was hurting too, but in a different way. That's not what Jim was shooting for. 

"I just want to help, Blair." 

Sandburg smiled for the first time that day, softly but with feeling.  

"I know you do, big guy. I just can't think of anything that's going to help right now but time." Blair patted Jim's arm where it rested near him on the nearly-naked mattress and let his eyes close, thinking.  

"You really want to do something for me, Jim?" 

"Yeah. Yeah, I do." 

"Talk to me." 

"Oh, god, Blair, not now. Not after all this shit . . . " 

"This is the perfect time to talk, Jim, and I don't mean about *that.*" He gestured dismissively toward the rest of the loft. "I just mean *talk* to me. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak, you know? I'm *bored,* man. I can't sleep, can't watch TV, definitely can't read." He snorted as if the very thought was ludicrous. "So talk to me. Tell me what happened at the stakeout." 

"You said you didn't want to talk about. . ." Jim mimicked Blair's gesture of dismissal. 

"This isn't about . . ." Blair parodied his earlier gesture. "It's about what happened *before* all that." He smiled again. "So tell me, already."    

* * *    

And Jim sat on the floor next to Blair's bed, leaning against the mattress with his forearms propped on his knees, and talked. 

About the stakeout, the airhorn blast that sliced through his eardrums and sent him to his knees. How it had hurt, how Simon had found him and hadn't known what to do, and so had left him there, fighting to get the dials back under control. 

Blair took it all in, nodding and asking the occasional question. When it was obvious that Jim had finished, Blair patted his arm again. 

"I'm really proud of you, Jim." 

A look of genuine puzzlement tinged with suspicion clouded Jim's face when he turned to address Blair directly.  

"Why would you be proud of me, Sandburg? Because I got put down by a frickin' *horn* or because nobody saw me? You can be proud of Simon for that last one." 

"I said, 'I'm proud of *you,*' Jim. You did your breathing, controlled the dials, all in a high-stress situation, and you did it on your own. So yeah, I'm pretty freakin' proud of you."  

Blair was beaming at him, now--beaming that huge-assed, shit-eating grin at him that was usually reserved for moments of triumph, e.g. getting an 'A', getting grant money or getting laid. 

Jim couldn't help grinning back. "So, professor. You're saying I did good today?" 

The grin never wavered. "You bet." 

"And how's the head?" 

"Better, man. Better." 

"Ready for some dinner?"  

"I could eat." 

"Stay put. I'll get us something." 

The sunlight was gone, replaced by the stark-white glow from streetlights--the color of milk and melted ice cubes, the color of cobwebs. The color of bone. But somehow, it made the lines on Blair's face appear softer, and--morbid thoughts aside--Blair did look more comfortable than he had an hour ago. 

Jim pushed himself up from the floor, stretching a bit.  

"Be right back, Chief." 

Blair shot him a little smile of thanks. He was 'Chief' again. 

Jim saw Blair's smile widen imperceptibly.  He headed for the kitchen, never turning on the light. It only took a few minutes to throw together a couple sandwiches and pour some iced tea.  

"Are you coming out, or do you want me to bring it in there?" 

"I'll get up, just give me a minute." 

When Blair emerged, Jim was already on the couch in the living room, plated sandwiches and glasses of tea on the coffee table. 

"We eating in there, Jim?" Blair asked, stretching to ease tight muscles. 

"What does it look like, Darwin?" 

"Okay, okay. The couch it is. Just don't yell at me if I get mustard on the upholstery." 

"I'll let it slide this time." 

"Mighty generous of you." 

"Shut up and eat, Chief."  Jim knew he was laying it on a bit thick, but he'd felt a little awkward since they'd talked and he was trying to encourage a more relaxed atmosphere. 

The banter continued while they ate, and after taking the dishes into the kitchen and rinsing them--"They'll keep, Sandburg."--Jim returned to the couch and sat next to Blair, as close as he dared. 

The guy was no fool. "What's up, Jim?" He grinned to lighten the question a bit. "Haven't had enough introspection for one day?" 

"I don't know."  

Outside, the stars were shining as brightly as ever, but it all looked wrong to Jim. 

"Something's just . . . off." 

Blair sighed, serious again.  "It's that 'I'm sorry' thing again, Jim." He shook his head. "It's gonna keep coming back and biting you on the ass if you don't work it out." 

"I don't know what to do about it, Chief." 

"Look, I know you don't like to say you're sorry. So how about we figure out something else? Some other way to 'say' it without actually saying the words." 

"And what do you propose, signal flags? Morse Code?" 

"This." 

Blair leaned in and wrapped his arms around Jim--one behind his shoulders, one across the middle of his back-- and rested his head lightly on Jim's shoulder. Waiting.  
Jim was a hugger, but he'd never hugged with a greater purpose in mind than simply making a comfortable gesture of friendship. This was about more than that. This wasn't a casual squeeze--an arm around the shoulders in the bullpen. This was... there was no other word for it. This was an embrace. 

And the whole time Jim had been processing this strangeness, Blair was still right there, holding him, and Jim's eyes were getting warm and stinging slightly. This was what he never had from his father, or Carolyn, or any of his friends who'd come and gone. Unconditional love. 

Because Blair wasn't saying, "I'm sorry." He was saying, "I know you're sorry, and I love you anyway."--saying it loud and clear, and Jim was wrapping his longer arms around Blair's back, lowering his head to Blair's shoulder and just holding on, finally saying what he'd been unable to say to anyone. Until now.  

The thought came to him that if he'd been able to do this four years ago, maybe he'd still be married.  

Maybe it could be okay again.

Blair sighed and shifted slightly, getting comfortable.

Well, okay, he wasn't going to run off and hug his father right that second. . . but this was a start.

 

~End, A Soft Answer

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------  
      
~ "A soft answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger." Proverbs 15:1~ 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: They're not mine, they're Pet Fly's toys. Since they've been neglecting them, I've taken them out to play with for awhile. I'll put 'em back soon, promise! No money has been made, no copyright infringement is intended and I'd do it again in a heartbeat.


End file.
